


Take On the World

by witchmaidensworld



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: AU, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, he survives okay, i am in denial of Gawain's death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 21:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30061614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchmaidensworld/pseuds/witchmaidensworld
Summary: Their first kiss was not spectacular. There was no buildup, no impressive scenery in the background, no fireworks. Gawain/Lancelot AU.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	Take On the World

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by late night gushing about this show with my dear bro- this is for you :D 
> 
> Also check out this killer playlist for our sweet emotional support mass murderer: 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6gzSbAqsQnaC8pWngjqlZl?si=ivh4RW7PS9qSneoscK6KVg&utm_source=copy-link

They had gotten back to camp caked in dirt and blood and smelling of death. Lance wanted nothing more than to fall face down onto his bedroll, but Gawain stopped him with a firm hand on his arm.

“Come with me.” His tone was soft, laced with exhaustion, but there was something of mischief in his eyes. He drew back his hand, and Lance nodded. He caught the suspicious glances of Arthur and some of the other warriors- for that was what they were. The term of knight was undeserving for all they encompassed, he had come to realize. They used the same tools- a sword, a bow. But the Red Paladins had called themselves knights once upon a time, and they were nothing more than bullies. 

Gawain beckoned at him again, and Lance looked away from the guarded but hostile stares to his friend.

Friend.

Was that what this was? He mused as he followed Gawain through the forest foliage, pushing away ferns and stepping across mossy stones. In the beginning they had stood opposing each other, and with a single word it had changed. He knew there were varying levels to whatever was between himself and the Green Knight- for Gawain, that title was beyond deserving. He stood for honor and truth and justice, as all the others did. But there was something more about Gawain.

“Where are we going?” Lance kept his voice down. Talking had never been his strong suit, he knew. But now he wondered if that was because he was adverse to it, or had it been a forced silence all this time? Since coming into his own, since taking that first terrifying step of his own at the camp, the slaughtered masked ones around him, Lance had become more aware of the lines drawn around him not by his own hand. Where did the Red Paladins’ influence end and where did he begin? 

“You’ll see.” Gawain’s voice was too light given the carnage they had just left behind. He had seen it before on the opposite side, but now standing beside the man it was something else entirely. Gwaine had spent his entire life training and fighting, and to see his prowess on the battlefield was awe-inspiring. 

“It’s a surprise, of sorts. I found it the other day.” With a final brush of the leaves and branches blocking their path, Gawain stepped down into a sunken alcove, giving Lance a clear view of the area. Trees grew at twisted angles, their branches stretching in all directions upward and tangling together to create a green canopy. The rocks were blanketed in vines and moss, and water burbled from a source at eye level, traveling down to fill the sunken area. 

Gawain stepped down and turned, holding his hand out. “It’s a bit slippery, careful.”

“You found this.” Lance hesitated, eyeing the offered hand. Weeks before he had stood across from this same man, certain of his death. Gawain had been broken completely, physical body shattered beyond repair. If it had not been for the boy’s insistence, the Green Knight would have died in that camp surrounded by his enemies.   
Now there was no trace left of the broken man, at least not at first glance. Gawain held himself straight and tall, thanks to the tireless efforts of the healer queen and her followers. They could not touch the haunted and pained look in the Fey man’s gaze, however, though there was no hint of it now.

Gawain smiled, nodding. “I was scouting the other night and found it. Makes for a good spot to think, or just be alone.”

Was he that obvious? Lance grasped the offered hand, stepping down in the sunken alcove. It wasn’t that he was adverse to the others, in fact he knew it was the other way around. He had spent a lifetime earning their distrust and hate. Their cold stares were the least he deserved. Being alone seemed to cool their ire for the time being, and often Lance would find himself drawing back, taking the spots far outside of their circle of trust but still visible where they could keep an eye on him.

Gawain turned away, fingers slipping from Lance’s grasp. He moved to the opposite side of the pool, the surface coated with loam and lilypads. Crouching, he pulled his gloves off and cupped his hands into the water close to the trickle of fresh water from the rocks. 

“You should get cleaned up.” Gawain watched him, hands stilled and cupped, filling with water. He wasn’t wrong; they were both filthy from the day’s fight. His dark gaze was fixed on him, Gawain’s eyes shadowed by a break in the dappled sunlight and turning his rich brown eyes even darker. 

Lance stiffened, and then mimicked the knight’s position, crouching on the opposite side of the pool. Facing across from Gawain, just as they always had done. Face to face, but never back to back.

That has changed now, hasn’t it? 

The battle earlier had begun and ended quickly. Red Paladins thrown from their horses under the onslaught of the witch’s tangled roots and branches. The flash of blades as opposing sides met. And in the midst of it all, Lance had found himself cornered alone with Gawain facing down three times their number. They had slipped into something new and terrifying but at the same time comforting and familiar, putting their backs to each other in silent agreement of their mutual goal. 

When the fighting had ended, Lance had caught Gawain’s expression, a mix of awe and surprise and a bit of resigned trust. No words were exchanged, but the Green Knight had nodded before moving away to stand with the bulk of the warriors. His own kind gathered together, and Lance on the outside. Just as it should be.

“Lancelot.” 

He looked up sharply, hands cupped but still above the surface of the water. Gawain hadn’t moved from across the pool, though his sleeves were now rolled to his elbows, the edges of them wet and water dripping from his forearms. His face was cleaned of dirt and blood, and his hair was damp from where he’d splashed water on his face.

“It’s Lance.” He tore his gaze away, focusing on his distorted reflection in the pool. Blue eyes stared back at him, and the dark lines on his face mocked him. You are the Weeping Monk. You shall serve and defend the cause, and you shall mourn for those lost along the way for our righteousness.

Gawain sighed heavily. “You are not a weapon, Lancelot. Not anymore.”

“You don’t know what I am.”

Gawain surprises him, then, moving so quickly he does not have time to react. One of his hands is on Lance’s shoulder, pushing him back against the boulder behind him, giving him nowhere to go. His other hand grasps Lance’s wrist, pinning his sword arm to his side. The weapon remains sheathed, useless.

“You are not a weapon. You are not evil. I know what they see when they look at you, do you think I don’t?” His face is a breath away from Lance’s, and he is struck by the intensity in the knight’s rich brown eyes and strong face. Gawain is chiseled from stone, it seems. There is nothing soft or easy about him; he is the solid strength that has come from years upon years of hardship and fighting. 

Lance swallows, the back of his skull pressed against the rock face. He should feel trapped, he does feel trapped. Cornered, nowhere to go. But he isn’t afraid, he realizes. Gawain was his enemy once, but that was before.

Before he had seen the truth.

Before he stood back to back with the man in battle. 

Before he had been truly known for what he was.

Murderer, he can hear the others’ gazes whisper, their movements cautious around him. 

Traitor. 

“You are not what they say you are.” Gawain has grasped a fistful of his shirt, shaking him slightly. “Lancelot.”

“I killed so many.”

“And you are atoning for that.” 

Lance watches Gawain’s gaze drop, his focus shifting away from his eyes. Ice blue, no remorse in them. Always weeping.

No.

“Gawain--”

He is cut off by the knight’s grip on him tightening, his mouth suddenly against Lance’s. It is rough and hot, but he finds himself unraveling with every passing second. The cocoon in his chest so tightly wound to protect the last shreds of who he had been is coming undone, and all he can do is grasp at the knight’s shirt and cloak, yank him closer.   
They fumble with each other, battle scarred hands tugging at clothes and limbs. It is happening quickly in the space between breaths, but Lance does not mind. He has lived for the heat of battle, for the sounds of men as they gasp and cry out at the work of his hands. This time is no different, but it is worlds away from what he once was. 

“You are more,” Gawain rasps. Minutes, hours later? He doesn’t know, nor does he care. Lance lays content in his embrace, their scarred bodies pressed together in the privacy of the glen with only the pool and trickling water to witness them.

“I cannot be more than what I am.” Lance traces his fingers across a raised scar on Gawain’s collarbone, focusing on the dip of his flesh as he moves toward his shoulder. But who was he, if not this wasted vessel of flesh and bone? He had been for so long a weapon, a tool forged by hatred and grief in order to stamp out those he had once known as family. 

All Fey are brothers.

Perhaps he could believe it, though with Gawain it felt different. He felt different. More whole, more at peace with all he could be, instead of what he had been. 

“Lance?” 

He met Gawain’s eyes, taking his hand in his own. Grasping firmly. 

“It’s Lancelot, if you don’t mind.”


End file.
